cement ivs

ヽ( ´¬`)ノ

Is it possible to light ones own pyre–
I feel the reek of another lifetime staining my horizon.

i
But it is I, who sets this table –
plates in places for no guests at all,
and it is I, who stands here,
raising a glass to nothing but
emptiness;

and my ghosts do not haunt me when 
the lights turn off, but rather,
in broad daylight –
they sit & they eat with me
(they eat at me).

ii
And I am the architect of my own dreams,
but these hands no
longer know how to build –
for you see,

I once built myself up from dirt,
from nothing &
just when it is was all an
arms length away,
I took a sledgehammer &
destroyed myself.

iii
And so, this is how the story goes –
cradling the fragments of
what I once was,
then using wire & mesh to try to
stitch a matter that cannot curve;
understanding that I can-not,
and in resignation,
sweeping what is left,
throwing it all into a coffin,
nailing it shut &
lavishing the exterior with wet cement.

iv
(I opt to pick roses to line my grave instead of
watching myself dry)

v
But how can the weight of
something not physically held,
suffocate–
I am so heavy with the weight of
all this lost hope.

vi
And just as the
sun is most blinding when in zenith,
understand this,
my shadow is not the darkest part of myself;

with sledgehammer in hand,
this cycle repeats –
you must understand,
I need to find out if I can break any further.

.

—  sdf 118/365 | breaking point - of pyres & graves & ghosts